


Lace

by seekingjets



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mention of Canonical Character Death, Mild emotional hurt/comfort, Pre Relationship, not beta read in the least, post Lost Light ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingjets/pseuds/seekingjets
Summary: Sometimes bad thoughts spread like wildfire.





	Lace

**Author's Note:**

> I will be honest and say I have no idea if the Lost Light crew knew about the whole Unicron ending, but for this fic in particular I’m using that as a driving force for why they left.

He’s trying to figure out, on a scale of one to fourteen bajillion, how much of a failure he’s become. 

Rodimus has coasted through life, riding the impossible edges of chaotic instinct and _ends justify the means_ with only the retribution of those with nothing better to do than yell at him for _maybe_ destroying nearly as much as he saved any given moment. 

He wasn’t a frontline warrior, not a hardened armor and grit jaw sort of mech. Very little really caught his attention for glory, despite what others might say. Excitement? Sure. Thrill? Absolutely. But he never had the same wistful look across his features when looking back on scorched and broken Cybertron as Optimus did. Rodimus had always lived in a broken and burnt city, until one day the entire planet looked that way. There was always a fight, always a struggle. Peace? Who is she? Sounds like the desperate machinations of tired soldiers fooling themselves into believing there would be a time to rest. 

Prime wasn’t like that.

He missed Prime a lot. 

They fought, sure. But his time between Earth and other similar organic worlds taught him there’s this thing called _Dad_ and Optimus was that. A foreign title, imply much more than Rodimus the Cybertronian could really fathom. He wasn’t made of Optimus, wasn’t his duplicate or creation - but even though they fought and disagreed. Even if some times he wanted to slug that stoic and always-right look off his stupid face: Rodimus misses him like crazy.

Optimus’ (Or is he Orion? Which was it who jumped into the void to save them all? Who was the bravest of them all in the end?) death was a heavy toll on his crew. Ratchet wasn’t surprised but his devastation was apparent. A few fanboys of course were crushed and there was a quiet understanding that he wasn’t coming back this time. That this was it. 

Megatron’s reaction was a surprise. 

He almost seemed to accept it faster than any of them. Just looked through Prowl’s worn and cold face as the news was delivered and there was a drawstring of tension plucked from his posture. He didn’t look happy of course - he almost seemed jealous. 

Then Megatron asked for Starscream and that’s when things got bad. 

Rodimus has seen Megatron horrified. It’s an apathetic look that peels at the edges. A stillness inconceivable for a mech who never stopped moving or fighting since his creation. So to see Megatron _roar_ in agony left Rodimus restless for nights on end, hearing that broken sound rattle his spark as if it were Rodimus himself who lost a former conjunx in one sentence. 

He guesses that’s why Megatron was fine with their absolutely stupid plan. 

The playfulness of it was an almost disgusting ruse. _Hey guys let's frack off to another dimension and never see our world again_. None of his crew really flinched, none of them seemed to have any reason to stay and by Primus, Rodimus hated that he knew that feeling. 

If they stayed, Megatron would surely be killed and Rodimus isn’t really sure the former-terror doesn't want that. He keeps an optic on the big guy, watches him flinch and turn his helm in expectation when Misfire is too loud - wings flaring and cackling with delight. Or when Brainstorm tears through communal spaces, screeching that he has a “ _great idea”_ \- followed closely by Perceptor chanting “oh no you do not!” 

Sometimes he even catches Megatron staring at _him_. A knitted brow ridge and pain seeping from the stillness of his features when he should be overjoyed at being alive. Free. He’s cautiously asked Megatron once, if he reminded his Co-Captain of his former Second (not sure if a yes would be an insult)? Uncomfortable with the attempt at a smile the old mech fashions out of his own shattered spark when he answered:

“Not in a way you’d understand.” Before slinking off to do whatever Megatron did when not standing too still on the bridge or trying to run from Nautica when she wants permission to do something with the engines and Rodimus tells him to _ask Megatron_. 

He knows it may not look it, but he does worry about his crew. Ratchet has taken to giving him updates of things he finds concerning behavior or personal conversation. Drift hides under tables to read aura with crystals or something, popping out when he senses negative energy. Krok has been pretty integral to keeping things in order - weird from a brooding awkward ex-con. Taking up residence in a room they found, stuffed with toy ships and a meticulous collection of research and information on harmonized psyche. 

A shrink on board was actually a pretty good idea, even a self-taught one. Rodimus kind of wish they’d had one all along.

The point is, Rodimus is staring out the glass display of the observation deck, watching this entire new universe pass by in bleeding, smeared lights, and he honestly doesn’t know if this cheerful charade his crew is performing is his fault. There. He said it. Er. Thought it. Presses servos against the cold glass that could withstand laser fire and missiles but Rodimus thinks might break under his weight. Missing Optimus, missing home - almost missing the war. 

Not the bloodshed and woe across the galaxy part. The part where he knew his purpose almost everyday. Survive and try to help others survive too. It was a simple life of absolute misery but at least he never had to guess at it. Whatever happens, Rodimus knew one thing, there would always be a reason to get up, another day to trick into being not so completely horrible. Now? Now he’s supposed to guess every day and hope no one notices they’re following a complete failure?! How is that fair!?

He misses Prime. 

Hell. He even misses Prowl in a way. Misses who the other used to be, how Hot Rod could just go to him before Prowl had that haunted look engraved in his expression. The thing which tore Jazz and he apart, that left him this angry, bitter soldier no one recognized. Rodimus genuinely hopes Prowl can be happy, as much as he hates him. Not sure if Megatron’s death would have made things click back into place, or if losing Optimus would shake him out of this ghoul of a disguise - but even if Prowl despised him in return, Rodimus was tired of being mad. 

There’s a soft “clack” as his brow ornament presses against the observation window, a quiet pause as Rodimus expects the surface to shatter and the rush of space to swallow him whole. Might be a good thing. Might spare his crew of his constant mistakes. 

Wild thing, wanting to very much to do good by the ones you love and always messing that up. Does failure count less if you didn’t mean to? Rodimus wonders how Starscream did it. Creep that he was, he didn’t hesitate to die to make up for his own shortcomings. Maybe that was the best way out.

“Sir?” 

How Ultra Magnus can sneak up on anyone is a dizzying thing. Bulky, heavy and with a precise walking pattern that Rodimus once spent a week timing - desperate to find any divergence in rhythm. He should have heard the other approach three floors away but he startled when the voice broke his reverie. Turning his helm still smushed against the glass to acknowledge his sub-commander. 

Ultra Magnus is a paragon of law and structure that has been chewed up and spat out for his rigid world view more times than Rodimus believes he’d personally survive. And yet he was still standing. Formal posture and tempered voice as he awaited Rodimus’ answer. The hard lines of his face nonthreatening despite being twice Rodimus’ size, and triple his integrity. 

Funny. Magnus used to look at Rodimus with disdain, then frustration. Not really sure when concern took the place of disappointment. 

“Did you just _sir_ me?” He smiles and his cheek is mushed into the widow, having to raise optics at an uncomfortable angle to reach Magnus’ waiting stare. 

“It’s almost as if you’re my superior.” 

“A joke?” Rodimus questions and Magnus’ expression tightened with doubt.

“I’ve been told to avoid outright jokes, that sarcasm was a better choice.” 

“That fact that you’re admitting practicing humor…” Rodimus still hasn’t lifted his helm from the glass, afraid to try in case it becomes apparent that he lacks the strength for it. His chest feels strained, spark heavy, and the only thing keeping him from accomplishing his final form of an exceptionally attractive puddle on the floor is: this window and Magnus’ presence. “What’s up Mags?” 

Ultra Magnus as a way of moving that makes him seem taller when you expect he’s already at full height. Shifting his weight only the smallest amount makes Rodimus feel crowded. The warmth of Magnus filling the minimal distance between his moping self and his sub-commander. 

“I wasn’t able to locate you on the bridge.” 

“My shift already?” Rodimus didn’t remember bridge duty on his undated schedule, the one Mags manages and updates every 10 minutes. Just in case. 

“No, that’s not it. You’ve been here...all day. I was concerned.” Magnus was looking out to the stars, calm and ever the straight strut soldier. It was bizarre nowadays, to know there was literally more to Magnus than meets - he doesn’t know - expectation maybe? That there’s a whole other life living beneath the heavy armor plates and the mech Rodimus knew first. Sometimes he doubts he knows Magnus at all. Is he Minimus in disguise? Is he Magnus, just has to wear a suit to be himself? 

Hates to think it, truly, but he’s uncomfortable around Minimus Ambus. Minimus Ambus isn’t the stern faced soldier Rodimus bickered with for years. He’s not the face that glared him down over Optimus’ shoulder when they had to be separated, he’s not the one who Rodimus tried so hard to convince he was worth the mech’s time…

But he also, absolutely is. All the memories Rodimus has of Magnus, all the _nearly_ supportive comments and the heroic moments of the big guy crashing in to save Rodimus at the last second. All the _almost_ smiles and sounds that could totally qualify as a laugh - those were also Minimus and Rodimus doesn’t think he’s allowed to ask which one Magnus is.

He knows he gets snappy with Minimus quickly. Ultra Magnus is indestructible, a powerhouse of judicial smackdown and the whole damn cavalry rolled into one package. Minimus makes Rodimus nervous. He can’t withstand what Magnus can withstand, he’s just as smart and just as crucial to Rodimus’ day - but Rodimus finds he panics when there isn’t stack tonnes of blue and white armor to protect Minimus. It’s a distraction he can’t shake and in the few instances they found themselves in potential danger on this new universe, Rodimus had to stop himself from just tossing the Minimus to Megatron when his sub-commander acted exactly as he would were he in the Magnus armor.

It drives him crazy.

“Rodimus,” A big big servo comes into view and Rodimus finds the glass is no longer supporting his weight, Magnus is. At some point he must have begun to slide down the wall in the most unflattering way, optics practically useless with all the static flying around his brain. Almost with knees to the floor when Magnus reaches out, easily catching him around the small of his waist and it takes no effort to hold him up. Nothing more complicated than a ragdoll held aloft in Magnus’ grip, his arms happy to impersonate rubber tubes and dangle useless at his sides.

“Sorry.” Apologizes with no real indiscretion in mind. He just wanted to apologize as Magnus pulls him back from the window, hesitant to set him back on his own pedes with the way Rodimus can feel himself sway at the first attempt. The thin stare of a mech violating personal space and the other’s scans flutter across Rodimus’ field, taking in all the information he chooses not to hide. 

“You’re not functioning at 100%.” Magnus’ voice is pitched with worry, his face curling. “Are you feeling ill? When was your last recharge? Refueling? Have you taken - “ 

“Mags, it’s cool.” He tries to refocus, really he does, but there's a pounding sensation across his processor and voice in the back of his thoughts SCREAMING that he’s the fragging CAPTAIN! How pathetic can he be? Seriously? The one mech who follows him on this crazy adventure, who keeps standing at his side with minimal but sound complaints - who lost everything because of Rodimus and he can’t even stay standing for a few minutes?

Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless.

Prowl was right. 

Getaway was right. 

Why did they leave? Why did they follow him here? Why did they trust _him_?

All his system alarms go wild when Magnus smothers him. Smother isn’t the word, but Rodimus wasn’t really sure what was happening at first. His limbs trapped inside the vice grip of powerful arms - the unprepared clatter of their bodies as his form is dragged into Magnus’ torso. Muzzle tucked against the side of the other’s chest bridge, the blue shape providing a shield enough for Rodimus to hide his startled expression of wide optics and parted mouth as Magnus... _hugged_ him. 

There’s silence. And it is uncomfortable. Both literal and figurative as Ultra Magnus squeezes too hard, Rodimus’ position scrunched against his broad chest and dangling useless in the other’s hold. Throat resting just above a vent route and he’s squirming under the heat radiating from Magnus’ form. Shivering from confusion and a sharp pain from his back strut at the awkward position that neither of them seem to know how to fix, not that Rodimus has much room for motion. He’s just staring into blue armor and trying not to embarrass himself by pushing away. 

“I’m not doing this right, am I?” The other’s voice rumbles down the length of Rodimus’ body where he’s crushed to his torso, feeling every vibration and shifting motion of the intricate systems beneath.

“If by _this_ you mean trying to squeeze me into a rope? Nah you’re doing great!” 

It’s a bad joke, doesn’t land well and he’s shifted and set free almost immediately. Stumbling unprepared to carry his own weight and has to catch Magnus’ wrist before falling to his aft. His sub-commander looking anxious despite his battle to maintain a steady expression. Clearly ready to run as pale armor darkens around his face with engines running warm.

“My mistake.” He tries to take a step back but Rodimus keeps ahold of his wrist, dazed but feeling the static in his own mind part. Almost calming in reaction to this new ridiculousness his head was trying to understand.

“Did you try to hug me?” 

“It was a poor attempt, I accept this.” Magnus looks uncomfortable but a soldier first. Keeping his awkward stare focused on what he perceives as his superior even if he looks like he’s rather swallow his own glossa than remain near Rodimus. “My apologies, sir.” 

“Why did you try to hug me??” It’s a raging battle not to smile, to cackle away the nervous energy bubbling against his chest. Rodimus wants to and thinks it would feel simply great to laugh, but he doesn’t want Magnus to think he’s being laughed _at_. Rodimus knows all too well what that feels like.

“It’s been suggested to me that an embrace can help alleviate stress, if just temporarily, if offered during a moment of concentrated tension.” 

“Someone told you to hug me?” Rodimus thinks it would be inappropriate to mark this moment in his active recordings: wrong to save the image of Ultra Magnus, brow furrowed and anxious as Rodimus basically holds him trapped by a pinkie. He thinks that, then feels better for considering his feelings before doing exactly that. Commiting the footage to storage and forever imprinted onto his memory banks.

“Not necessarily.” Magnus was never one to drag out an answer, so seeing him struggle now was almost comical. “I did my own research. Lately you’ve been…” 

_Useless? A waste? A disappointment? A regret?_ All the terrible thoughts trickle back to the forefront of his mind. Rodimus feels himself stutter and still, actually afraid of what Magnus has to say about him. Mags is the only one Rodimus depends on not to lie to him. Drift goes too flowery, tries to cram delicate suggestions. Ratchet refuses to coddle him, but also reacts loud and personal. Rodimus has always depended on Magnus to be the consistent voice in the back of his head, even if that voice is usually ignored.

“You’ve been doing so much, to keep things in order best they can. I can see it’s difficult on you, this is uncharted territory and things have changed so much, I’ve been concerned about your. Feelings.” 

A smile cracks across his face, unable to stop it. Magnus actually flinches from it, which Primus shouldn’t be endearing.

“That must be absolutely exhausting for you.” He teases and watches Magnus’ broad shoulders give a little with a tired sigh.

“I was unprepared for how taxing this process would be.” Magnus slouches as much as Magnus has ever slouched, which looks rigid and cold to anyone but Rodimus. He considers thanking Magnus, letting him step out of this awkward situation with both their pride stapled together, a fragile hold and more denial, but the other continues on. “But I also know you rather well, Rodimus. I know you wouldn’t ask for help so I took it upon himself to try and be prepared should you require - “ 

“A hug?” He suggests.

“Support.” Ultra Magnus confirms. “I know I am lacking in many avenues of which you require aid but I hope that doesn’t cause any hesitation on your part to seek me out should things get difficult.” 

It’s sad really, that Optimus is dead and Prowl hates him. It might have been neat to have them here, know that Rodimus can actually be made speechless. 

“You’re my Captain, and my friend. It only benefits me to protect you.” Voice slips at the edges, the strict lines soldier faltering just enough that Rodimus can’t help but feel a warmth blossom at the back of his neck. Pouring down his shoulders and duel for ownership over his spark from the thrashing voices of doubt and despair. The warmth doesn’t win, but it makes an impact as Rodimus’ smile relaxes a bit. Rub the space beneath his optics and stare up at Magnus, Minimus, both. 

“I need protecting?” 

“From yourself. Sometimes.” He doubts Magnus really gets how perceptive a statement he’s made, but it fills Rodimus with a renewed energy, both amused and struck with his sub-commander’s earnesty. “I might doubt your decision making process at times, but I trust you. Implicitly. I hope you feel comfortable doing the same.” 

It’s not a cure and doesn’t somehow remove all doubt from Rodimus’ thoughts - but he’ll take it. Especially when he knows Magnus is absolutely suffering putting himself through this conversation. If anxious glances and the smallest tremor where Rodimus still holds his servo are any indicators. 

Huh. Crazy to think about it, maybe Magnus likes him, just a little.

“Does talking this much about feelings cause you physical pain or…?” He teases to ease tension off in a way Mags would recognize, and does. There’s a comfort settling back into his face and Rodimus allows the servo back to its owner. Watching at the corner of his sights as the large pale hand flexes midair in hesitation and then retreats to its proper place. 

“It’s not entirely excruciating.” He lies but though he’s not one to smile, Rodimus can recognize it in the quiet face, all noble and grand but never smug. No. Magnus was better than him, better than a lot of them, he just didn’t know it and thank Primus because Rodimus wouldn’t know what to do without him.

“Can I make it excruciating?” He asks, unable to stop himself even though he’s torn between delight and knowing better. But the look in Magnus’ face was priceless and maybe drawing it out a little longer was selfish. But hey. No one is perfect.

“Pardon?” 

“Sit down.” 

Magnus stares and Rodimus waves him down.

“You heard me, do I need to say Captain’s orders because that’ll make this a whole different mood.” Out of fear or maybe knowing Rodimus too well, Magnus abides. Large body lowered until he’s sitting on the floor looking entirely unamused, obviously trying not to comment on the cleanliness of the floor, or that no matter what Drift said the floor was not for sitting. Adorable really, someone who lived through war, has physically covered Rodimus from shrapnel spray and fire, would complain about sitting on the floor. But he does because Rodimus asks, massive legs outstretched before him as he looks uncertain.

It just about evens their height and gives Rodimus the opportunity to step forward. Stand between the frame of legs and take Magnus by the same surprise as earlier. Arms moving to slip over broad shoulders, turn his face and chest to settle against the left plane of Magnus’ chest, angled so his more angular ornaments don’t catch or jab the other awkwardly as before. He can reach to clutch his wrist just behind the blue helm, full length of his own torso pressed into Magnus’ body radiating heat and gentle vibration against his as he tucks his nose bridge into his friend’s jaw and doesn’t squeeze too hard.

There’s a stuttering, similar to a hiccup, against his waist where Magnus’ engines give a soft choke in surprise. The shifting of arms struggling for direction before settling on resting the flat of his palm at the back of Rodimus’ doorwings (has to contain his jolt from the sensitive network now being brushed light and careful under Magnus’ thumb. The dizzying shiver he won't let ruin the moment).

“Thank you Magnus.” He says finally, tucking his face further against the other’s jaw, finding it almost easy to hide against the weight of it, comfortable and familiar though they have never touched like this. Feeling - right - when all else in the universe wants to crawl unsettled and wrong with doubt and cruel thoughts. “For being here.” He feels Magnus’ stroke pause, the smallest tremor beneath him. 

And the sound of a sigh pressed nearly into his audial receptor _almost_ feels like he’s smiling.

“Of course, sir.” 


End file.
